


with the furies breathing down your neck

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Apocalypse, Attraction, Explicit Language, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Road Trips, unspoken feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-18 01:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11281233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: No one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition. Or the fucking zombie apocalypse, apparently.





	with the furies breathing down your neck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feroxargentea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feroxargentea/gifts).



> Thanks to glitterburn for the beta!

 

Brad calls him two days before the phone lines go down.

Nate hasn't heard from him in three years, not since he left for England. He still remembers the brief, warm squeeze of Brad's hand against his when they said goodbye, even if he can't remember what either of them said. It was something witty, inconsequential. _Don't let those coddled Ivy pussies at Harvard turn you soft_ maybe, or _I'm looking forward to hearing stories about you giving the Royal Marines a run for their money._ Nothing sentimental, nothing personal, nothing honest. No _It's been a pleasure serving with you_ , no _Take care of yourself_. No _I'll miss you._

A handshake. A few words. Blue eyes meeting his. A brief, tight nod. Then Brad was gone from his life.

There's been the occasional, random update from Ray or Mike during their regular e-mail exchanges and infrequent phone calls. But that's different from hearing Brad's voice right at his ear, as clear and crisp and familiar as if he was standing right next to Nate.

"Something's happening," Brad says after they exchanged their initial greetings.

It's unusually vague, even for Brad, and Nate feels a sense of unease clawing up his spine when he realizes that this isn't a social call. "What do you mean?"

Brad sounds impatient, frustrated. "I couldn't tell you, sir. And I don't mean that it's some top-secret not-fit-for-civilian-ears bullshit. I just don't fucking know. Only that it's something big. There's some chatter down the grapevine. People getting twitchy."

Well. That doesn't clear up anything at all.

A muffled huff. "I'll be at your place on Friday. You can ask me all the fucking questions you want to ask, and I'll answer what I can."

"Solid copy," Nate says. He might not be able to make sense of what Brad's trying to tell him, but the prospect of seeing him for the first time since Nate left the Marines, of actually talking to Brad in person, sends a rush of excitement through him.

#

He doesn't have to wait until Friday to get his answers. On Wednesday, the phones are dead. On Thursday, it's all over the news. Shaky video footage of dead-eyed people attacking strangers on the streets, pandemic experts from the CDC talking about an outbreak, police officials issuing a warning for people not to panic.

Brad's insinuations made Nate think of war, a coup, terrorist attacks and counterstrikes. Not this.

No one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition. Or the fucking zombie apocalypse, apparently.

#

Brad looks tired and worn, not that different from how he looked by the time they rolled into Baghdad, after three weeks on the road through hostile territory.

"LT, good to see you." He clasps Nate's hand firmly in greeting. It's fucking ridiculous. They haven't seen each other for years and it's the middle of the apocalypse. This isn't the time and place for formality.

Nate pulls him into a brief, tight one-armed hug. He doesn't linger, but Brad squeezes his shoulder when he lets go and offers a wry, lopsided smile, one corner of his mouth quirking up, an implicit acknowledgement of the general level of fuckedupness of the situation at hand.

"Jesus, Brad."

Nate is all out of words. How do you say 'thanks for taking what had to be one of the last flights to get to Boston instead of going straight home to California'? Grateful as he is that Brad's here, he doesn't understand _why_ , doesn't get why the first stop Brad made when everything went to shit was to him.

He shelves the question, decides to ask for details about what's going on instead. Not that Brad can provide many, beyond what's already public knowledge and what Nate has surmised from the information that was omitted in the news. A biological weapon gone rogue, human error rather than maliciousness, experts underestimating the seriousness of the situation until it was too late.

Nate frowns and wets his dry, worried lips with his tongue. "Is there... some plan in place, a strategy how to get on top of this?"

"Nothing. It's done. Structures are falling apart, everyone's scrambling to save their own asses. However fucking long that'll give them."

It makes sense, because otherwise Brad wouldn't be here; he'd be out there somewhere setting up a cordon, securing a safe zone. At the same time, none of this makes sense at all. "You said there were rumors. That means someone must have known. They must have seen this coming," Nate argues, agitated.

"They knew about the virus. Not about this FUBAR situation where we took a left turn out of reality and entered some stupid-ass horror movie because some dumb brain-dead fucker thought they had it contained." The rise in his voice is barely noticeable, wouldn't have registered at all if Nate didn't know him so well, but this is the Iceman. For him, this is the equivalent of screaming and kicking things. The last time Nate's seen him this upset was when he was watching a shepherd boy bleed out in the sand because he'd ordered Trombley to take a shot.

Nate fights against the urge to reach out a comforting hand. Brad doesn't like to be coddled, least of all when he's vulnerable. "Do you want to get some rest?"

He already knows the answer before Brad shakes his head. "We should hit the road. Cities are gonna be the worst place to be when this spreads. Ray and Poke are meeting up with us outside Pendleton." He picks up Nate's duffle that's been sitting next to the door since late last night, packed with just enough to get by and everything he can't bear to leave behind. It's a good thing he knows how to travel light. "I hope you have a car, sir, because my efforts to secure one at the airport amounted to nothing."

"Way ahead of you. Already filled it up with supplies."

"Ah, see, I'd almost forgotten what it's like to work with officers who are in possession of working brain cells and a certain level of strategic skills." At Nate's amused huff, he offers a grin. It's sharp and brittle, but genuine. "Are we passing through Baltimore to check in on your parents?"

Nate shakes his head. "They're in California, visiting my sister."

He hopes they're okay. He spoke with his mother on the phone last Saturday, talking about classes and his thesis, listening to her rant about the rudeness of the drivers in L.A. Laura's baby started crying and his mother cut the call short. _I gotta go_ , she'd said. _I'll call you next week._ He didn't tell her he loved her.

He can't think of that now.

He grabs his keys from the rack next to the door, even though he knows he probably won't need them anymore. Brad doesn't comment on it as he watches Nate lock the door behind them.

#

Getting out of the greater Boston area is tense. Some of the main roads are closed, and most of the others are packed with cars, tens of thousands of people trying to leave at the same time. They navigate their way through back streets and dirt roads, taking the long way around the suburbs that lie eerily still and devoid of life.

"We can't take the Interstate," Brad says, looking out of the passenger window. His eyes follow a group of people walking along the side of the street. They're carrying signs with various destinations but not bothering to hold them up, clearly already given up on the hope of hitching a ride, not acknowledging the car as it passes them. He watches them in the mirror until they disappear at the horizon, swallowed up by asphalt and houses and trees.

Nate shoots him a withering look. "You think?"

Suddenly there's something in the middle of the road. Nate's head snaps back front just in time to see the bulky figure of a guy, his expression unnaturally blank as he looks at the approaching car before they hit him.

Nate hits the brakes. The hollow sound of impact. Tires screeching. The car bumpily grinding to a halt.

Nate's hands grip the wheel. _It didn't look like a zombie_ , he thinks, before he remembers that he doesn't know how zombies look, that his only point of reference are shitty movies his roommate at Dartmouth made him watch when they got home from a party and were too drunk and pumped to sleep. He swallows against the lump in his throat.

"Should we—"

In the rear view mirror, he sees the body stir.

" _Drive_ ," Brad shouts, and Nate floors the pedal.

#

Brad's taken the wheel after they crossed the state line into New Hampshire, and Nate's fingers drum a restless rhythm against the armrest.

"We should be able to do something." Frustration strains his voice. He might have left the Corps, but he's still a Marine in every way he counts. He's not used to feeling helpless. Marines make do, even in the most adverse of circumstances.

Brad's lip curls, but there's no humor in the smile, and his tone is harsh with sarcasm. "Like what, sir? Save the world?"

Nate glares at him until Brad turns his eyes back to the road, until the aggressive lines of his shoulder relax and give way to tiredness.

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry. It's just... fucked up. You and I both know we can't do shit. They taught us thirty-six ways to kill some sad motherfucker with our bare hands, how to hold our breath for four minutes and how to blow up a bunch of terrorists and camels, but none of that'll get us anywhere now. Turns out MCT's about as useful as any dick-suck tap dancing class when the world's ending."

"The world's not ending," Nate corrects him, quiet and sure, focusing on the details because thinking about the bigger picture makes him want to tell Brad to pull over so he can puke his guts out. Details are fine. He's good with details.

When Brad frowns at him, he shrugs. "Just civilization. Humanity, perhaps. The world will be fine without us."

It startles a laugh out of Brad. "Thank you for the sparkling display of optimism, sir. Such a relief to hear that the cockroaches and some plankton will live on. No reason to be upset then."

They share something that could almost be a smile.

#

They sleep in the car for two nights, taking turns driving, until Nate puts his foot down and demands they find themselves a motel room.

Brad's eyebrow rises. "Three years out of the Corps, and you've already gone soft. I distinctly remember telling you not to. I'm disappointed, sir."

Nate smiles and doesn't argue that he could probably go another 48 hours before he crashes, but just looking at Brad's blood-shot, tired eyes hurts. Neither does he voice the fact that they should make use of the comforts of civilization as long as they're available to them, because that might not last. "We're not in the Iraqi desert, Brad. Just because we can go for four days without sleep doesn't mean that we should," he says. "And it's Nate. As you so astutely pointed out, I'm a civilian now."

"Roger that, sir."

Nate doesn't bother stopping himself from rolling his eyes.

#

Nate argues that Brad should have the bathroom first by citing a bastardized version of the 'officers eat last' rule.

Of course, Brad won't accept it without arguing. "I thought we established that you're not my CO anymore but a pussy civilian who gets all weepy when deprived of the comforts of modern civilization."

"You're the one who keeps calling me 'sir'."

Brad inclines his head. "Point taken," he concedes.

Nate doesn't dare hope that it'll mean that Brad will address him by his actual name now. Some habits die harder than others, apparently.

But he's too tired to guard his mind or his tongue the way he usually does, and before he can stop himself, he says, "Maybe you just like having me order you around."

He wants to take the words back the second they cross his lips, but it's too late. It's inappropriate and too telling, crossing the line from semi-antagonistic, semi-friendly banter to suggestive flirtation. Brad's not going to call him on it, of course, because that would violate the unspoken ROEs amongst Marine brothers, but Nate expects Brad's face to shut down the way it did when he got an order he hated or when command displayed a beyond-average level of ineptitude.

The wide, shark-like smile, he doesn't expect. "Got me all figured out, have you?" Brad pauses before adding with a wicked flash in his eyes: "Sir."

It's a good thing he turns and disappears into the bathroom without waiting for a reaction because Nate doesn't have a clue what he'd have replied.

#

They get attacked when they're having breakfast in a cozy diner that serves freshly brewed coffee and pancakes like it's a day like any other, like people here didn't get the memo that life as they knew it ended five days ago.

The normalcy of the situation is startling, and Nate gets distracted by Brad cutting off a piece of his pancake and dipping it in maple syrup until it's drenched and dripping with sticky-sweet liquid. His eyes zero in on the way it coats Brad's lips, the flick of his tongue as he licks it off. If he didn't know better, he'd think Brad was doing it on purpose.

Then suddenly there's screaming, glass breaking, someone crying out in pain. Nate's butter knife goes through the eye of the pale faced guy in a tattered business suit who just took a bite out of the waitress.

He's not the only one, though, and the scuffle lasts two minutes that feel like twenty.

It's only when everything has calmed down and he tries not to show his relief that the waitress has bled out from a torn artery and doesn't need to be dealt with, that he sees the blood on Brad's arm and the angry, wide gash it's oozing from.

Time stills, and he forgets to breathe for second. It's like seeing Brad in the hole in Baghdad, about to detonate a bomb.

"Brad—" he starts. Doesn't know how to finish.

Brad follow his gaze to his wound before he pointedly looks down to the broken coffeepot on the table. The jagged, broken glass is coated red.

"Don't worry, you won't have to kill me just yet," Brad comments laconically, and Nate wants to throw a punch. He doesn't; he merely clenches his teeth and nods. But something must be showing on his face because Brad's expression softens.

"Nate. I'm okay."

It takes a long time until Nate's heart stops racing.

#

They don't talk in the car, that day. Brad tries to start a conversation by commenting on the poor quality of Nate's music collection, but Nate barely reacts.

All the gas stations they pass are closed, and even though the trunk is crammed with filled jerrycans and bottled water, it might not last them to the coast. That's what Nate should be worrying about, but it's not what's going through his head right now. His situational awareness is fucked.

He can't stop seeing Brad's wound, can't stop his mind from running 'what if' scenarios. There was a time when he used to be better at this, when he accepted that death could come on every road, behind every corner, out of the blue skies. Maybe Brad's right and he's really gone soft.

Except he knows that this isn't it, that it's not about being afraid to die or to lose people, to watch people meet their violent end. It's _Brad_ he can lose, and he wonders when he started to feel that way, when Brad became somehow more important to him than anyone else in his command. He thinks back to OIF. Brad's sharp smiles. _Your leadership is the only thing I have absolute confidence in_. The way he looked at him at the park when Nate was second-guessing himself. _Far enough, sir._

Fuck.

#

Brad's the one who pulls over at a motel this time, even though Nate would have preferred to stay on the road for a while longer. He's not tired, the adrenaline buzzing through his veins keeping him wide awake, and they're safer as long as they keep moving.

He's not in the mood to argue, though, following Brad wordlessly into the room he got them, kicking the door shut behind them and dropping his duffle on the floor.

The next thing he knows, his back hits the door and Brad's _right there_ , an unforgiving hand against his chest holding him in place. Fight-or-flight instinct and years of combat readiness almost make him lash out, but the look on Brad's face is enough to give him pause and hold himself in check.

Even through the layers of clothes, the pressure and warmth of Brad's palm presses into his skin like a brand. He barely feels the door handle digging uncomfortably into his back, too focused on Brad, whose presence fills the entire room, barely leaving Nate room enough to breathe.

"I need you to get your head out of your ass, sir. I'm fine. I can take care of myself. I don't need you to fuss over every paper cut I get." His words have an edge, but the tone is calm, something Nate would be inclined to call comforting if it was anyone else but Brad.

"That's not what—" He doesn't know how to tell Brad that he wasn't only freaking out about the idea that Brad would turn into a zombie, but also about the intensity of his own reaction. He shakes his head. That's not something Brad should have to deal with. "I know that. But just because I'm not your CO anymore doesn't mean I don't feel responsible."

Brad's eyes burn into his like he's trying to look right into Nate's brain and pluck the thoughts out. "All due respect, that's bullshit. I can't remember you sulking like Ray when he's PMSing every time we were under fire in Iraq."

What does Brad want to hear from him? Suddenly angry, Nate pushes himself away from the door, against Brad's hand.

"Let go, Brad."

It's a warning Brad doesn't heed. He doesn't step away, his hand pressing down harder.

"I don't think so," he says, and before Nate can ask him what the fuck he thinks he's doing, his lips are on Nate's. Nate kisses back without consciously making a choice, running on instinct and leftover adrenaline, on today's twisted mess of emotions and four years' worth of something he's only just realized runs far deeper than a simple ill-advised crush.

Brad kisses like he does everything else, sure and confident and thorough, and when they break apart he appears to be so cool and in control that Nate could almost believe that it didn't affect him at all, that he's really the Iceman the USMC community considers him to be. But his hand on Nate's chest has tightened into a fist, tangled in Nate's faded old Harvard shirt, and his pupils are so wide and black that they swallow the blue of his eyes almost completely.

"What the hell, Brad?" Nate asks, because he's never been able to take a good thing without questioning it.

"Come on, Nate, you and I both know that this is three years overdue." Brad's eyes map his face, darting down to Nate's lips, and Nate is glad that he's decided to skip the 'sir' this time. A wry smile makes the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. "Maybe even a bit longer."

It feels like an admission or an accusation, and Nate doesn't particularly want to explore either option at length, so he leans in and kisses Brad again.

They've always been better at communicating without words.

#

Later, Nate takes first watch, settling down at the window sill and watching the neon lights reflecting on the wet asphalt, the blinking 'vacancies' sign creating flashes of color. He looks out for shadows that don't belong, danger hidden in the dark, and it takes him right back to the desert.

Brad's voice cuts through quietness of the room, startling him. "Come to bed."

"One of us should stay awake," Nate argues.

He can hear Brad moving, sheets and covers rustling.

"You can stay awake from over here. It's not like they'll be able to plan a strategic attack. That's not how the virus works."

Outside, the yard lies still and silent, the only sounds the steady, low drum of rain against the window. Nate cranes his head and looks towards the road. A group of trees moves gently in the wind and he remembers Brad's _There are men in the trees!_ and the rattle of gunfire that followed.

But no matter how much he narrows his eyes and concentrates, the trees remain just trees, branches and leaves swaying back and forth.

Brad is right. This is pointless.

He lets go of the curtain and moves towards the bed, settling down in the space Brad left for him. The mattress is lumpy and too soft, but the body behind him is radiating warmth, and Nate unconsciously seeks it out. He edges closer until Brad's arm curves around his waist, Brad's breath brushing against his neck and the neon lights periodically flashing through the curtain.

#

They're Oscar Mike at nine, two hours later than they'd planned after what was supposed to be a perfunctory shower turned into morning sex, and breakfast at the diner across the street went blissfully uninterrupted.

Last night's rain has given away to an uncomfortable, humid heat. Brad pushes his sunglasses up his nose and grins at Nate as he takes the wheel. When he switches on the radio, there's only static on every frequency. Nate tells himself that he prefers it to the constant, increasingly panicked downpour of terrifying news about the pandemic, but he can't shake the implications of it.

Brad pushes one of the CDs he took from Nate's room at Harvard into the player, an old R.E.M. album an ex-girlfriend left with him. _It's the End of the World as We Know It_ blasts from the speakers and Nate winces.

Next to him, Brad snorts. "Your taste in music's still shit, sir. I'm used to Ray's inbred Whiskey-Tango country caterwauling, but from you, I expected better."

"This is what high expectations get you," Nate snipes back good-naturedly, glad to fall back on the old banter to distract him. "Endless disappointment."

Out of the speakers, Michael Stipe announces that he feels fine, apocalypse be damned, like he's trying too hard to convince himself and everyone who's listening. Brad and Nate both reach for the skip button at the same time.

End.


End file.
